We Know What He’s Done

The cavernous sea
Erupts at my feet.
All the horrors of an Empire
Come crashing down.

A Priest, they call him.
But we know what he’s done.
He lies on the sand
Innocently.Wheeze. Wheeze.Dying, they say.
But we know the truth.
A plague, perhaps,
A scar upon the surface
Of an otherwise beautiful sea.

Despite everything, he clutches her –
His statue of the Virgin Mary.
Wrapped in a box,
She is protected from his ways.
Yet she cries.
Her bloodshot, human eyes
Sob with such vigour
That we wonder,
Can nobody save this poor Virgin?

I want him off this beach.
Him and his statue make me sick.
We know what he’s done.
And we certainly know why she’s crying.